Lazybones Thorne 3 Page 8

  Eve bent down and picked up what looked like a miniature metal bucket. A cactus-like plant sprouted from a layer of smooth white pebbles. She handed it to him. 'Do you like this?'

  Thorne was far from sure. 'What do I owe you?'

  'Nothing. It's an early birthday present.'

  He studied it from every angle. 'Right. Thanks...'

  'It's an aloe vera plant.'

  Thorne nodded. Over her shoulder, he could see Keith watching them closely from behind the counter. 'So I should be all right for shampoo...'

  'There's a gel in the leaves, very good for cuts and scrapes.'

  Thorne looked at the fierce-looking spikes growing along the edges of the plant's sword-shaped leaves. "That'll come in handy.'

  They stepped out on to the pavement, the slight awkwardness returning. Thorne noticed a silver scooter parked by the side of the shop - one of the latest Vespa's, based on the classic design. He nodded towards it. 'Yours?'

  She shook her head. 'God, no. That's Keith's.' She pointed to the other side of the road. 'That's me over there...'

  Thorne looked across the road at the grubby white van behind which he'd parked the Mondeo. The name of the shop was painted on its side, in the same creeping-ivy design as was on the shop front.

  'The name certainly fits,' he said.

  She laughed. 'Right. Like being an undertaker called De'Ath. What else could I do? Flowers are the only thing I can think of that bloom . . .'

  Thorne could think of several other things, but he shook his head, not wanting to say anything that might spoil a nice afternoon. 'No, you're right,' he said.

  Thinking...

  Bruises. Tumours. Bloodstains ...

  *****

  For the fourth time in the last hour, Welch was answering the same stupid set of questions.

  'Date of birth?'

  Maybe the officers just passed the list between themselves. You'd have thought that at least one of them could have come up with something more interesting...

  'Mother's maiden name?'

  But no. Same tired old teasers designed to catch out the impostor. The process had gone unchanged for many years but these days they really weren't taking any chances. Not since the incident a couple of months earlier. A couple of Pakis in a prison up north had swapped places on release day and the silly bastards had let the wrong one out. Several screws had blown their pensions that day and, once the jungle drums had finished beating, given every con in the country a fucking good laugh...

  'Do you have any tattoos?'

  'Can I ask the audience?'

  'You want to be a smartarse, Welch, we can start the whole thing over again...'

  Welch smiled and answered the questions. He wasn't going to do anything silly at this stage of the game. Each door he walked through, each successfully completed series of questions, each tick on a chart took him one step further away from the centre of the place. One step closer to the final door.

  Answering pointless questions and signing his name over and over. Taking receipt of his travel warrant and discharge grant. Taking back his property. The battered wallet, the wristwatch, the ring of yellow metal. Always 'yellow metal'. Never 'gold' in case the bastards lose it...

  Then through another door and on to another screw, and all this one gets to say to him is 'goodbye'.

  Welch walked away towards the gate. He moved slowly, savouring every step, seconds away from the moment when he would hear the clang of the heavy door behind him and feel the heat of the day on his face. And look up at a sun the colour of yellow metal.

  *****

  For Thorne and Hendricks, a Saturday night in front of the television with beer and a takeaway curry was a regular pleasure. For nine months of the year there was football to watch, to argue about.

  Tonight, the start of the new season still seven weeks away, they would probably watch a film. Or just sit through whatever was on until, a couple of cans in, they stopped really caring. Maybe they would just put some music on and talk.

  It was nearly nine o'clock and the light was only just starting to fade. They walked down Kentish Town Road, away from the restaurant and back towards Thorne's place. Both wore jeans and a T-shirt though Thorne's were far and away) the baggier and less eye-catching. Hendricks carried a plastic bag, heavy with cans of lager, while Thorne took responsibility for the curry. The Bengal Lancer delivered, but it was a nice evening for a walk and there was the added attraction of a cold pint of Kingfisher while they'd waited, the smell coming from the kitchens sharpening the edges of their appetites.

  'Why the rape?' Thorne asked suddenly.

  Hendricks nodded. 'Right. Good move. Let's get the shoptalk out the way - you know, the rape and murder stuff-then we can relax and enjoy Casualty...'

  Thorne ignored the sarcasm. 'Everything else, so well planned, so meticulously done. He takes no chances. He strips the bed even after he's killed Remfry on the floor. Takes everything away to make sure he leaves nothing of himself behind...'

  'Nothing strange about not wanting to get caught.'

  'No, but it was all so careful. Ritualised almost. Whether it happened before or after the murder, I don't see the rape as part of that. Maybe he just snapped at some point, lost it...'

  'I can't see it, myself. The killer didn't just go mental and do it without thinking. He knew what he was doing. He wore a condom, so he was still wary, still in control...'

  There were dozens of people gathered outside the Grapevine pub. They spilled across the pavement, laughing and drinking, enjoying the weather. Hendricks was forced to drop behind Thorne as they stepped into the road to skirt round the crowd.

  'You think the rape wasn't part of the plan?' Hendricks was abreast of Thorne again. 'You think he just decided to do it once he'd got there?'

  'No, I think he planned the whole thing. The rape just seems...'

  'It was more violent than most, I agree, but rape's hardly delicate, is it?'

  An old man waiting at a zebra crossing to cross the road caught just enough of the conversation. He jerked his head around and, ignoring the signal to cross, watched them walk away. A frustrated driver waiting at the crossing glared at the old man and leaned on his horn.

  'I'm not sure why it bothers me,' Thorne said. 'It's a murder investigation but it's the rape part that feels significant...'

  'You think the Miler was making a point?'

  'Don't you?' Hendricks shrugged and nodded, heaved the bag up and slid a protective arm underneath. 'Right,' Thorne said. 'So why is the simple grudge scenario not playing out...?'

  They walked on past the sandwich bar and the bank. Music was coming from behind open windows, drifting out of bars and down from roof terraces. Rap and blues and heavy metal. To Thorne, the atmosphere on the street seemed as relaxed as he could remember. Warm weather did strange things to Londoners. On sweaty, rush-hour tubes, tempers shortened as temperatures rose. Later, When it got a few degrees cooler and people had a drink in their hands, it was a different story...

  Thorne smiled grimly. He knew it was only a small window of opportunity. Later still, when darkness fell and the booze began to kick in, the Saturday night soundtrack would become a little more familiar.

  Sirens and screaming and breaking glass...

  As if on cue, as Hendricks and Thorne walked past the late-night grocers, two teenagers, standing outside, began to push each other. It might have been harmless, it might have been the start of something. Thorne stopped, took a step back. 'Oi...'

  The taller of the two turned and looked Thorne up and down, still clutching a fistful of the other's blue Hilfiger shirt. He was no more than fifteen. 'What's your fucking problem?'

  'I don't have a problem,' Thorne said.

  The shorter one shook himself free and turned square on to Thorne. 'You will have in a minute if you don't piss off...'

  'Go home,' Thorne said. 'Your mum's probably worried.'

  The taller one sniggered; but his mate was less amused. He looked quickly u
p and down the street. 'You want me to smack a couple of your teeth out?'

  'Only if you want me to nick you,' Thorne said. Now they both laughed. 'You a fucking copper, man? No way...'

  'OK,' Thorne said. 'I'm not a copper. And you're just a couple of innocent young scallywags minding your own business, right? Nothing I should have to worry about, you know, if I were a police officer, in any of your pockets.' He saw the eyes of the taller boy flick towards those of his friend. 'Maybe I should check though, just to be on the safe side ...'

  Thorne leaned, smiling, towards them. Hendricks stepped forward and hissed in his ear. 'Come on, Tom, for fuck's sake...'

  A girl, two or three years older, walked out of the shop. She handed each of the boys a can of Tennent's Extra, opened one herself. 'What's going on?'

  The boy in the blue shirt pointed at Thorne. 'Reckons he's a copper, says he's going to arrest us.'

  The girl took a noisy slug of beer. 'Nah... he's not going to arrest anybody.' She pointed with the can towards the bag Thorne was holding.

  'Doesn't want to let his fucking dinner go cold...'

  More laughter. Hendricks put a hand on Thorne's shoulder.

  Thorne carefully put the bag on the ground. 'I'm not hungry any more. Now turn out your pockets...'

  'You love this, don't you?' the girl said. 'Have you got a hard-on?'

  'Turn out your pockets.'

  The boys stared at him, cold. The girl had another swig of beer. Thorne took a step towards them and then they moved. The shorter boy stepped round his friends and away, running a step or two before slowing, regaining his composure. The girl moved away more slowly, dragging the taller of the boys by the sleeve. They stared at Thorne as they went, walking away backwards up the street. The girl lobbed her empty can into the road and shouted back at Thorne. .

  'Poofs! Fucking queers...'

  Thorne lurched forward to chase after them but Hendricks's hand, which had never left his shoulder, squeezed and held on. 'Just leave it.'

  'No.'

  'Forget it, calm down...'

  He yanked his shoulder free. 'Little fuckers...'

  Hendricks stepped in front of Thorne, picked up the bag and held it out to him.

  'What are you more pissed off about, Tom? The fact that I was called a queer? Or that you were?'

  Unable to answer the question, Thorne took the bag and they carried on walking. They veered almost immediately right on to Angler's Lane, a one-way street that would bring them out close to Thorne's flat. This narrow cut-through to Prince of Wales Road had once been a small tributary off the River Fleet, now one of London's 'lost' underground rivers. Here, when Victoria took the throne, local boys would fish for carp and trout, before the water became so stinking and polluted that no fish could survive, and it had to be diverted beneath the earth, confined and hidden away in a thick iron pipe. Now, as Thorne walked home along the course of the lost river, it seemed to him that nearly two centuries later the stench was just as bad.

  By a little after ten, Hendricks was fast asleep on the sofa, and likely to remain so well into Sunday morning. Thorne tidied up around him, switched off the TV and went into the bedroom. He got no reply from the flat. She answered her mobile almost immediately.

  'It's Thorne. I hope it's not too late. I remembered from the sign on the door of the shop that you weren't open on Sundays, so I thought you might...'

  'It's fine. No problem...'

  Thorne lay back on the bed. He thought that she sounded pretty pleased to hear from him.

  'I wanted to say thanks,' he said. 'I enjoyed today.'

  'Good. Me too. Want to do it again?'

  During the short pause that followed, Thorne looked up at the cheap, crappy lampshade, listened to her laughing quietly. There was a noise he couldn't place in the background. 'Bloody hell,' he said. 'You don't waste a lot of time...'

  'What's the point? We only saw each other a few hours ago and you're ringing up, so you're obviously pretty keen.'

  'Obviously...'

  'Right, well, tomorrow's for sleeping and I'm busy in the evening. So, how keen would you say you are, really? On a scale of one to ten...'

  'Er... how does seven sound?'

  'Seven's good. Any less and I'd've been insulted and more would have been borderline stalker. Right then, what about breakfast on Monday? I know a great caff..'

  'Breakfast?'

  'Why not? I'll meet you before work.'

  'OK, I'll probably have to be at work about nine-ish, so...'

  Eve laughed. 'I thought you were keen, Thorne! We're talking about when I start work. Half past five, New Covent Garden flower market...'

  17 JULY, 1976

  It was more than half an hour since he'd heard the noises. The grunting and the shouting and the sounds of glass shattering. He heard her footsteps as she moved around, from her bedroom across that creaky floorboard that he'd never got around to fixing, into the bathroom and back again. He spent that half-hour willing himself to get up off the settee and see what had happened. Not moving. Needing to build up some strength, some control before he could venture upstairs...

  Sitting in front of the television, wondering how much longer this was going to go on. The doctor had said that if she kept taking the tranquilisers, then things would settle down, but there was no sign of that happening. In the meantime, he was having to do all the stuff that needed doing. Everything. She was in no state to go to the shops or to the school. Christ, it had been 'over a week since she'd last come downstairs.

  Walking across to the foot of the stairs, stiff and slow as a Golem . . . Listening to it, watching it, feeling it all come apart. They'd given him the time off work, but the sick pay wasn't going to last for ever and she was contributing nothing and now the debts were growing as thick and fast as the suspicion. Mushrooming, like the doubts that sprouted in every damp, dark corner of their lives; had been, ever since that moment when the foreman of the jury had stood and cleared his throat. He walked into the bedroom, feeling the carpet crunch beneath his feet. He glanced down at a dozen, distorted reflections of himself in the shards of broken mirror, then across to where she lay, no more than a lump beneath the blankets. He turned and walked back the way he'd come. Back across the creaky floorboard.

  In the bathroom, he skidded in the puddles of ivory face-cream. He stepped across the piss-coloured slicks of perfume. He kicked away the broken bottles into every corner.

  So much that was designed to smell alluring, desirable, mingled unnaturally on floor and walls, making him heave... He moved across to the sink, afraid he would retch. He found it filled with the contents of the cabinet that stood empty above it. Blusher and lipstick and eye-shadow ground into the porcelain. Moisturiser clogging the plughole like poisonous waste. Powder and shampoo and bath oil, thrown and poured and sprinkled. The edges of her fancy soaps blunted against the walls. Dents in the plasterboard, pink as babies, blue as bruises. The mirror cracked, and spattered with nail varnish, red as arterial spray...

  He ran a tap into the perfumed swamp, splashed water on to his face. He looked around at her handprints in talcum, the finger trails dragged through brightly coloured body lotion. Hints of herself left behind in everything she was trying to discard.

  She'd been fine until they'd found her out, hadn't she? Fine with the knowledge of what she'd done as long as it stayed just between her and Franklin. Now the guilt was eating at her, wasn't it? Sending her fucking mental or making her pretend that she was, it didn't really matter which. Half a minute later he was walking back down the stairs, thinking, She lied, she lied, she lied, she lied...

  She. Lied.

  SEVEN

  Thorne might well have gone right off Eve Bloom had she been a morning person - one of those deeply annoying types who is always bright-eyed and bushy-tailed whatever the ungodly hour. As it was, he was relieved to find her wedged into a quiet corner, clutching a polystyrene cup filled with seriously strong tea, and grimacing at nothing in particular. She c
learly felt as much like a warmed-up bag of shit as he did...

  Thorne cranked his face into action and forced a smile. 'And there I was, thinking that you'd be full of the joys of it.' She stared at him, said nothing. 'Fired up by the noise and the colour, intoxicated by the sweet smell of a million flowers...'

  She scowled. 'Bollocks.'

  Thorne shivered slightly and rubbed his arms through the sleeves of his leather jacket. It might have been the hottest summer for a good few years, but at this time in the morning it was still distinctly bloody nippy.

  'Like that then?' he said. 'Floristry losing its appeal, is it?'

  She took a noisy slurp of tea. 'Some aspects get ever so slightly on my tits, yes . . .'

  They stepped back as a trolley piled high with long, multicoloured boxes came past. The porter behind it winked at Eve, laughed when she gave him the finger.

  'You know you want me, Evie,' he shouted, wheeling the trolley away.

  She turned back to Thorne. 'So, you love everything about your job, do you?'

  'No, not everything. I'm not big on post-mortems or armed sieges. Or team-building seminars...'

  'There you go, then...'

  'Most of the time though, I think I love it...'

  There was the first hint of a smile. She was starting to enjoy their double act. 'Sounds to me like maybe you love it, but you're not in love with it...'

  'Right.' Thorne nodded. 'Problems with commitment.'

  She blew on to the tea, her pale face deadpan. 'Typical bloke,' she said. Then she laughed and Thorne got his first glimpse that day of the gap in her teeth that he liked so much...

  They moved methodically through the vast, indoor market. Up and down the wide concrete aisles. He followed a few steps behind her, cradling his own cup of rust-coloured tea and feeling himself coming slowly to life, the creases cracking open. Taking it all in... The shouts and whistles of traders and customers alike echoing through the gigantic warehouse. Twenty-and fifty-pound notes counted out and slapped into palms. Porters humping boxes or steering noisy forklifts in their green, fluorescent jackets. All the colours the stock, the signs, the punters' fleecy tops and puffa jackets - all standing out against the dazzling white buzz of a thousand striplight, dangling from the girders forty feet above.